The Night of Donkey Work
by SilverShadow44
Summary: A Christmas Tale - Semi-retired Secret Service Agents James West and Artemus Gordon are planning the perfect holiday with their families. Perfect, that is, until a dangerous gang of armed bandits makes off with half the gifts in town, including the very special one they've bought for their children. Will they be able to save Christmas with some help from the town Grinch?
1. Visions Of Sugarplums

**The Night of Donkey Work**

The procedure was reaching its critical phase. Artemus Gordon agitated the perforated cast iron cage over the flames at a precise level while watching with amusement his fascinated audience. His seven year old daughter's eyes were glowing with anticipation. Artemus' five year old namesake godson, 'Tem' West, was even more riveted, staring unblinkingly at the metal cage and almost trembling with excitement.

Then – it happened! With a loud pop, the very first kernel of corn transformed itself into a mini-white cloud ricocheting within the confines of the black metal. Within seconds, other kernels began popping and careening around one another until the cage became so filled with the popped popcorn that there was no more room for the last few pieces to move much from where they burst. The whole spectacle took place in under a minute as both children leaned in to watch, with the restraining hands of Arte's friend, neighbor and Secret Service partner Jim West on their small shoulders to keep them from getting too close to the small bonfire. Then little Amanda and Tem gave glad cries as the scientist/chef swung the cast iron cage away from the flames, opened it and poured the fluffy white contents into a waiting bowl. This was the kind of science Artemus Gordon liked best – absorbing, yet practical.

The children needed no urging to descend upon the bowl like a pair of hungry wolf pups, each one grabbing and crunching a couple of handfuls before scurrying back to the warmth of the Gordon residence with the remainder of the popcorn. Jim grinned with amusement at the sight of them carrying the big bowl to its destination.

"Artemus, you realize," he said, "as much of that is going to wind up inside them as gets put on the trees."

"Exactly why I came prepared, James my boy!" Arte smiled as he picked up and shook a cardboard cannister, which rattled at the motion. "Plenty more corn where that came from!" As if to prove it, he poured another half cup of raw kernels into the popping cage and readied for Round 2. Jim sat down on a log to watch the encore performance and Arte couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Amanda and Tem weren't the only children to be spellbound by this cooking/science demonstration. One very big kid name of James West was just as interested, even if he tried not to show it. Such a simple thing, yet the popping of popcorn never failed to extract a sense of wonder in a season that was already full of wonders.

Fifteen minutes later with another cage-full of edible mini-clouds and the bonfire safely banked, the Secret Service's two most accomplished agents wandered into the warmth of the Gordon living room. Lily Gordon and Adele West were there, sitting with the children on the long davenport and helping them string pieces of popcorn and fresh cranberries into colorful garlands for the West and Gordon family Christmas trees. Newly cut pine tree and pine boughs scented the air along with hot spiced cider, while another crackling fire glimmered in the hearth. Arte drank in the scene as if it was the finest cognac. Maybe life could get better than this, but at the moment he just didn't see how. He and Jim had to be the two luckiest men alive right now.

Of course, they'd all be feeling lucky the day after tomorrow when everyone got to open their presents on Christmas morning. Artemus already knew what most of those presents were, since he and Jim had helped one another shop for their respective wives and children. Little Tem, who'd been good as gold all year (except for the weathervane incident) would look resplendent in his new cowboy boots, hat and fringe jacket. His parents had also bought him a pile of games and puzzles – hopefully enough to keep the inquisitive tot from climbing to the roof of the barn again. And Tem's loving Uncle Arte had personally manufactured for him a toy train set to look just like the Wanderer, with tiny tablets that could make real steam come out of its chimney.

Amanda, clever and a bit less well-behaved, but nevertheless an adorable little angel in her father's eyes, would be getting some new outfits too, plus half a library's worth of books, some new sketching pads and pencils, and a special chess set that Arte had spent weeks carving just for her. Lily had already vetoed the lariat that Amanda had asked Santa for. Artemus felt bad about that – after all, how could his precious young apple dumpling go wrong? But all four parents were practically itching with excitement to see what their children's reaction would be to the most special Christmas present of them all: their very own pet burro.

Tomorrow, Christmas Eve day, Jim and Arte had an assignment for which their professional backgrounds had prepared them well. While Lily and Adele took the children into Chicago by horse trolley to watch a Christmas show, the agents would sneak off to Millwood Grove's auction barn to pick up their special purchase and bring it back to the shared West/Gordon horse barn, where it would remain hidden until the big reveal. The tame and gentle burro was already acclimated to children, as its previous owner had used it to give rides to small fry at parties and picnics in the area, in spite of which the animal still seemed quite fond of the little ones. The burro would also be a good teaching tool the agents could use to school the children in how to take care of such creatures preparatory to the day when Amanda and Tem would each be given their first horses. Both children had already been taught to ride – now they could learn the responsibility that comes with owning their very own shared steed. Well, sort of a steed. And Lily and Adele had been so taken with the cute, fuzzy creature that the children might learn about sharing and patience at the same time!

Artemus only wished the burro had been a bit cheaper. The sole reason the poor little thing was up for auction at all was that its elderly owner had died recently. Still, this should have been a comparatively inexpensive purchase, and would have been if not for a cranky competitor for ownership at the auction. Mean Mr. Nusker, the most crotchety man in Millwood Grove, had also gone to the auction barn that night and for reasons unknown had tried to outbid the quartet of parents for the burro at every threatened turn of the gavel. The Wests and Gordons were both well off, if not fabulously wealthy, but cash-at-event was what the auction barn always called for, and as the bidding rose higher and higher, Arte, Lily, Jim and Adele had all been forced to pool the nearly insufficient funds they'd brought with them. Jim's determination had been nothing short of grim. If there was one thing neither agent could stand (although there were several things, to be honest), it was the willful abuse of animals. Everyone knew Mr. Nusker had the most miserable-looking, scarred, chewed-up dog in town, a timid hound that walked with a pronounced limp on three legs and shied away from other people. No way was Jim going to let a sweet, tame donkey fall into the villainous Nusker's hands. He almost bid his own cuff links. But Adele reached into her waist-purse and threw her precious pin-and-thread money to the cause that night. Those dimes and nickels had added just enough to the pot for them to outbid their opponent and triumph, with Adele the heroine of the hour and the burro's cozy, family-owned future guaranteed. Hadn't Mr. Nusker shot them all a glare as sour as a bushel full of lemons too! Count Draja couldn't have managed a better scowl.

With nary a nickel left in their pockets, the quartet hadn't been able to bid on a single other item at the auction and had to return to their children's babysitter early rather than taking a light, late supper in town as they'd anticipated. But it was only some pocket money they were out, after all, and when Arte got to see his little girl ride that burro and make daisy chains to put around its neck come spring, the bidding would all be worth it. Yes, this happy holiday was going to be just about perfect!

Jim's prediction for the popcorn had been right on target, and the big bowl was already two-thirds empty by the time Arte refilled it with the second batch. Spotting a tiny white crumb at the corner of his lovely wife's equally lovely lips, he realized the children might have had some help with snack consumption, so he kissed her to remove the evidence. Somehow a pair of cranberry-and-popcorn garlands managed to get made that afternoon, one for the Gordon's tree and one for the West's, before dinner was served, carols were sung and Jim and Adele departed for their house just up the hill, with their tuckered little buckaroo yawning on his father's shoulder. A wonderful day, wonderful evening, wonderful family, wonderful friends and a wonderful Noel just around the corner – what could possibly go wrong?


	2. The Matter

"Arte, do you recall those windows being broken?"

Both men halted momentarily in their early morning walk toward the Millwood Grove Auction Barn. They'd left their horses tied at the nearby public post already. Years of living dangerously had conditioned the agents to spot objects out of place or things as they should not be. The building ahead of them might be considered a barn, and that was still one of its functions, but it was the town's largest business venue too, and immaculately kept up by its owners. An auction held in a hovel wouldn't attract the sort of clientele or dollars that this place did. But in spite of that, today, this early in the morning, in a mild but oncoming winter two of the windows _were_ broken, so recently that they hadn't been tarped or covered over yet. As they drew closer, the agents noticed something even more alarming – the entrance door left slightly ajar with a number of suspicious gouges and a couple of chunks taken out around the door latch.

"Looks like someone got in without a key," Arte whispered. Somebody far more amateur than Arte and Jim when it came to getting in doors the hard way from the look of it. Without another spoken word, facial movements only, they both went into a defensive crouch, glancing up but sprinting in diagonally separate directions for each of them to take up a position on either side of the damaged door. Neither man had brought a sidearm with them, but they were armed with wits and decades of combat expertise. At a silent hand signal on the mental count of three, they burst in through the burgled portal and saw . . . nothing. Literally.

"Holy . . . !" Artemus exclaimed.

The auction barn that was normally filled to the rafters with more than just the chairs in front of the stage had been picked clean. The tables, counters and cases where 'new' merchandise was displayed each month stood barren. Nothing hung on the walls except hooks and some wire. No sign of the auction barn's owners either.

"Looks like we're too late," Jim muttered. "We'd better check the stables."

Seeing no one and a whole lot more of nothing to stare at, the men made their way to the back of the barn where the livestock stables were kept, and hopefully their pet burro as well. As they approached the entrance to the stables, they heard a groan. With another quick exchanged look, they rushed in and located the source of the groan. On the floor of the stables' central corridor lay a trio of men fallen in a heap, one slowly regaining consciousness – the source of the groan – and two still out like lights. These were the barn's owners. Jim and Arte recognized them at once. And standing over them was another figure they recognized easily – Mr. Nusker. The sour-faced farmer knew who Jim and Arte were too and glared at them as they entered.

"Well?" Mr. Nusker demanded. "You two going to gape and loaf or are you going to give me a hand with this lot?" Without waiting for an answer, Nusker reached down and lifted the groaning man with all the delicacy of someone hefting a sack of flour.

Jim and Arte each took one of the other two unconscious proprietors and lifted them and carried them out of the stable and back to the barn's front entrance where the light was better, right behind Mr. Nusker and his charge. More people were streaming into the plundered facility from outside now. It was the work of a few minutes to set the wounded men down on a makeshift mat of coats while a couple of the new arrivals went to fetch the town doctor and the sheriff. Today was a day on which many, many people had been counting to pick up their stored Christmas purchases, so the emptied barn began to fill up fast with the disappointed as well as the curious. With the injured owners being tended to, Jim and Arte took the opportunity for another look around. The livestock stables were just as empty as the rest of the barn, every single animal stolen.

"Doggone it, Jim!" Arte swore. "It's bad enough that whoever did this stole everyone else's Christmas presents, but it looks like they stole the one we came for as well!"

Jim nodded, still keeping his eyes on Mr. Nusker who, along with a couple of others, had gone to check out the plundered stables too. Artemus recalled that Nusker, while he hadn't won the donkey, had successfully bid on some other animals that night – poor, unfortunate creatures! But whatever he'd bid on – cage of rabbits, was it? – he might've had a legitimate reason to be here early, just as they were, to collect his property this morning. Artemus dismissed the idea at once of his being a suspect anyway, whether he had been first on the scene or not. Jim West might be capable of thrashing the auction barn's owners, three strapping men, all at once, but surely not this loner picklepuss of an old farmer, big and cranky though he might be. And a theft of this size was obviously the work of a gang of men. Nusker, as far as Arte knew, didn't even have friends or a shred of charisma – he wouldn't make much of a gang leader or follower either, in the agent's estimation. The agents wandered back to where they'd taken the semi-conscious victims and where the local law officer had just arrived.

"What in the yellow rose of Texas?" the sheriff gaped in dismay as he entered the cavernous, empty auction barn.

"Just what we were wondering," Jim told him, nodding to Artemus. "We came here to pick up a donkey we'd purchased and this is how we found the place."

The doctor, arriving only a few seconds later, paid no attention to the hollowed-out auction house, but went straightaway seeing to his patients, who started to revive with a dose of smelling salts. At least two of them, anyway – one of the three took one look around at his empty surroundings, gave a brief cry of horror and fainted.

"We're ruined . . . ." one of the others moaned, staring about as he was helped into a sitting position. "Ohhhh . . . ."

"I'm assuming this was a robbery," Sheriff Kurtz said, trying to assist with getting the man sat up. "Can you tell us anything about who attacked you?"

The dazed auctioneer blinked and rubbed his head.

"I don't know," he groaned. "There were so many of them. Too many . . . ."

"More than five?" Jim asked.

"Yes," the miserable man nodded. "A whole gang of them. Maybe twice that number. Or more." He moaned again. "It was so dark, and they were all dressed in black. Couldn't . . . see them all . . . ."

"It would take a pretty sizable group of men to pull off something this big," Artemus murmured. "The entire place cleaned out in one night, furniture, jewelry, even livestock! And without any outcry? No other witnesses?"

"We don't know that!" the sheriff snapped. "How about you two fancy-pantsers stay out of this and let me do my job!"

Jim and Arte exchanged glances. It wasn't the first time that Sheriff Kurtz had expressed resentment at having a pair of semi-retired, celebrated Secret Service agents in his stomping ground.

"If it _is_ a large gang," Jim said, "I'd think you would appreciate all the help you can get."

"If they were still here I might," the sheriff conceded grouchily. "But it appears they've flown the coop – along with everything they could get their hands on. And with some stuff o' mine that was in here too!" He grimaced, looking around again at the vast, empty space.

Yes – the theft had been about as large scale as it could get for such a town, Artemus realized as he took in the same view. That made another thought occur to him, one that held worry and promise both.

"Have they?" he asked.

"Have they _what_?" Kurtz frowned.

"Flown the coop. Skedaddled with all the loot?" Arte sighed. If there was one more unusual habit he'd picked up from life on board the Wanderer, it was a meticulous – some would say obsessive – attention to railroad schedules and routes. He'd always had a better head than his partner for 'keeping track' as he'd often joked. He still kept track – he couldn't help it. Millwood Grove was on a regular train route, as most of the towns surrounding central hub Chicago were, but no train had been scheduled to stop at the local depot in the wee hours of last night. Given the noise and vibrations the big machines caused, it would have drawn notice if one had off-schedule. "A large gang, dressed in black, carting that much stuff out of town and not by train? Late at night and without even those stolen animals slowing them down?" He shook his head. "You're right, Sheriff. We don't know yet that there aren't any witnesses. But it's safe to say there wasn't any general alarm given either. That would be one very conspicuous burglar's parade to get out and away by any of the main roads or even the side roads without being heard and seen."

"Ergo there's a likelihood they're still here in town somewhere close, hidden and planning to move the goods a few at a time," Jim completed the spoken thought. Both men had enough experience to know how most smuggling operations worked.

"Still here!" The sheriff gaped, but he didn't scoff. He _did_ turn a trifle paler as he considered the possibilities in silence for a moment, and it was clear from his expression that Jim and Arte's 'meddling' in the investigation might be welcome after all. The auctioneer that he'd helped into a sitting position was gaping too, though not with as much horror as one might expect at the prospect of his attackers still being near.

"Does that mean the . . . everything they stole . . . might still be nearby too?" he asked tremulously.

"Now don't go getting your hopes up, Lucius," the sheriff told him. "We still don't know more than we know. Just be glad the three of you are still alive." Sheriff Kurtz stood up as the doctor began harrumphing to examine this third patient, and the auctioneer's wife, now alerted came running in as well, anxious rather than scolding. Kurtz and the two agents got little more information out of the second revived man, who also bemoaned financial ruin. The three auctioneers had stayed late at the barn that night making merry and celebrating a profitable year as was their holiday custom. It had been easy for the robbers to take them by surprise. Their families would have thought nothing of it if their private celebration had lasted all night – that too was apparently an annual tradition, their reward for another year of hard work well done.

"There won't be a happy Christmas for them this year," the sheriff muttered as he and the two Secret Service agents left the stripped auction barn. "Or for plenty of other folk if we can't find all those stolen goods." He turned to West and Gordon. "You boys really think there might be a chance?"

"There's always a chance, Sheriff," Jim said.

Artemus nodded. Both agents had gotten a potent reminder of that in the mail a few days ago – the Christmas cards they received each year from the grateful family of an innocent man they'd saved from hanging.

"I only ask 'cause, uh, see there was this pretty little bauble I thought'd be just perfect for my wife and . . . ."

"You were having the auction barn hold it for you," Arte completed the sentence.

Sheriff Kurtz lowered his gaze to his boots.

"The sooner we get looking, the better." Jim frowned. "A gang of at least ten, maybe more. We'll have to be armed, and reinforcements wouldn't be a bad idea. This isn't a case for Washington though. Sheriff, think you can scrounge up your deputies and maybe a few others?"

"Looks like I got to," the sheriff sighed. "Nothing else for it – and on Christmas Eve too!"

They'd already learned from the owners that the one and only night-time security guard the auction barn employed had been given the previous night off by his generous employers. That also made him the first potential suspect to be checked out.

"Uh, want to help me with that?" Kurtz asked, no longer reluctant to accept an assist from the Secret Service 'fancy-pantsers.' When Artemus tried to point out that he and Jim needed to return home and arm themselves before risking any confrontations, the sheriff offered to provide them with guns out of his own stores in town. Guns weren't exactly the only weapons Arte had in mind, but he didn't want to elaborate and give away any fancy-pantser secrets. It might not be the best idea to let the resentful lawman know just how many dangerous chemical concoctions, gadgets and explosives he and Jim still kept on hand at their otherwise normal houses. But he had to shelve the argument as he heard a startled exclamation from his partner.

"Son of a . . . ." Jim started to swear and took off at a run. As Artemus and the sheriff turned around to see what had caused him to react, the answer was obvious. Nasty Mr. Nusker was over near where Jim and Arte had left their horses, and he appeared to be doing something to Blackjack. Arte took off after him too, not because he thought Nusker was any match for the legendary James West, but because it wouldn't help their current search any if Jim got arrested for attempted Nuskercide.

"I was just lookin' at him," Nusker snapped as Jim ran up and appeared ready to throw a rock-hard punch. Whatever Nusker had been up to, he had relinquished his hold on Blackjack, and now Nusker's three-legged dog came between the two men and seemed determined to defend his master even though the poor creature had little means of doing so. Its remaining limbs were trembling and as it made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine, it had more gum than teeth to bare at Jim. The miserable mutt's stub of a tail looked as though it would have gone between the dog's legs if there had been enough of it left to reach that far. Still, the faithful hound was standing/quivering its ground.

Before the situation went any further, Nusker backed away from the black stallion and whistled for his dog to follow.

"Just lookin'," Nusker repeated. "That's all. He's a fine, healthy animal," the old farmer said, nodding toward Blackjack.

"And he's going to stay that way," Jim said, adding more growl to his own speech than the dog had been capable of and narrowing his eyes in a way that Arte knew all too well. Jim's glare was often the last thing criminals saw prior to a fist and a whole bunch of stars showing up in their field of vision. Nusker didn't flinch in the slightest though. He stood his own ground, motioning for the dog to get behind him, before Arte cleared his throat loudly enough to remind Jim they had other things to worry about than fisticuffs against an aged and unworthy opponent.

"What's going on here?" Sheriff Kurtz demanded.

Nusker grunted, fixing Jim with his own stare, then turning his attention to the sheriff.

"Nothing," the sour-faced farmer snorted. "Not a damn thing." And with that, Nusker turned and left, whistling again for the dog to follow him, though he needn't have bothered. The unfortunate canine couldn't leave fast enough, jogging ahead of its master as far as its awkward tripod gait permitted. While Jim checked Blackjack over for any sign of harm, whispering and patting the stallion, Artemus kept his attention on the departing pair, feeling pity for the dog, but also a gnawing bit of curiosity. He couldn't blame the abused animal for being terrified of Jim, or of other people for that matter. Odd how it was so loyal to its wicked owner though . . . .

"Coming?" Sheriff Kurtz asked.

"Actually, Sheriff . . . ." Artemus began again.

"Yes," Jim stated, in a voice that brooked no excuses. "We're coming."

Arte sighed. He knew that Jim West tone of voice and the impulsiveness backing it up as well as he knew his Secret Service partner's 'fury' expression. Blackjack hadn't suffered any ill as a result of Nusker's 'lookin' the horse over, but Jim still had a protective hand patting his stallion's neck and was probably thinking about what their little burro's fate might be if they didn't manage to find it and the other animals soon. Borrowed guns and sharp wits would have to suffice as their weapons for the time being. Well, they had often gotten by on less. They'd just have to manage this time too.

Because a whole lot of people were counting on them today . . . .


	3. Meet With An Obstacle

"I don't know h. . . how it got there, I swear!" Thomas Shepherd protested, eyes wide and staring in horror at the shiny gold pocket watch Sheriff Kurtz was swinging back and forth for all to see. The M.G. Auction Barn's tag still attached flapped back and forth too, every bit as visible.

"Yeah?" the sheriff demanded. "It was on _your_ front porch here, and you're the security guard who should'a been working last night when the robbers came. So where'd you and your buddies put the rest of the stuff?" Kurtz poked a sharp finger into his suspect's chest while two of his deputies stood behind Shepherd, blocking any possible escape.

"I . . . I don't know! I mean, it wasn't me! They gave . . . me the hours off and I was home all last night! Honest!"

The sheriff looked unimpressed.

"Can anyone swear witness to that?"

Shepherd gulped and kept on gaping and gulping, like a fish struggling to breathe on dry land.

"No, n-no," he stammered. "My mother's been ill and I . . . I kept checking in on her. She slept the . . . the whole night. But I was here! I'm innocent!"

"Like a babe in the woods," Kurtz drawled. "Watch like this could fetch quite a bit of money. That'd be real handy for someone needing to take care of a sick relative . . . ."

"No!" Shepherd cried. "I mean, I know, but I wouldn't d-do that! Anyway, they . . . gave me money as well as the night off! For Christmas, they said! Twenty-five dollars! I wouldn't never steal from anyone that n-nice to me! And I . . . I've only been working there two whole months!"

One of the two deputies whistled. Artemus almost did too. Twenty-five dollars was more than an average man's wages for a week – a generous bonus indeed, especially when added to a whole night off of work. But the crime of the Christmas Eve theft, already heinous, had to be considered even more so if carried out by a receiver of such generosity. The taller and rougher-looking deputy scowled, then took hold of Shepherd's shoulder. Shepherd wasn't small or unmuscular himself, but he didn't look like he'd be a match for the man gripping him.

"Give me a crack at him, Sheriff," the deputy snarled. "Ten minutes. I'll get the truth out of him."

Artemus was about to intervene by suggesting they let _him_ talk to the prisoner instead. He usually didn't need even ten minutes to get the full story out of someone, and by far gentler means than what the deputy might have in mind. But Jim beat him to the non-punch in this case.

"He may be telling us the truth already," Jim said, calmly but forcefully stepping forward and making the deputy loosen his grip and his bluster. "Battering him into a lie won't get us the answers we need."

"And what makes you so sure he ain't the one behind this?" Kurtz frowned, shaking the pocket watch by its solid gold fob chain. "We found this on his porch, didn't we? And he's the most obvious! I'm not all backwards just because I ain't a famous Washington feller! Old Clam's Shaver would say he's our man!"

"I think you mean Occam's Razor," Arte corrected, resisting the urge to grin. "The most obvious explanation is the one most often correct. But in this case, it's both _too_ obvious, and not obvious at all."

"Huh?" The sheriff scratched his head in puzzlement.

"He's the most obvious suspect, as you say," Arte pointed out while pointing to the pocket watch. "But that little bit of booty is _too_ obvious. We found it the second we got here! Just lying out there plain as day with the tag showing – like we were _meant_ to find it. Awfully careless of this young man if he's secretly one of the criminal geniuses who can pull off such a robbery without alerting anyone while it's happening!" Arte put a friendlier hand on Shepherd's shoulder than the one the deputy had used, but it still made the younger man flinch. "If, on the other hand, I were trying to _frame_ someone like Mr. Shepherd for the crime, why yes, I suppose you could say that's just how I'd do it. Leave behind a clue so easy a blind man would spot it! Possibly leave out some more too-obvious clues in other parts of the town – enough of them to keep the lawmen distracted and preferably far from where the main stockpile of stolen goods is hidden."

The sheriff harrumphed and pulled himself up straight while considering this.

"You think someone's trying to play me for a fool, Mr. Gordon?" he demanded.

"Well, they might _try_ ," Arte nodded. "But I'm sure you wouldn't fall for a trick as obvious as that, now would you?"

The sheriff, who had considered doing that very thing until Artemus phrased it that way, now appeared to have his doubts about Tom Shepherd's guilt and stopped swinging the watch around.

"Something else to consider," Jim added. "Look around you, gentlemen. Do you see anywhere on this property a barn or building large enough to hold that much in the way of stolen merchandise – or livestock?"

Millwood Grove was surrounded by farms and house lots of various shapes and sizes, but the Shepherd parcel was a good deal humbler than most. Tom and his mother occupied a modest single-story house which might have been an outbuilding originally intended for the farmhands that once worked on a larger estate. It occupied a mere three-quarter lot now, with just enough room left over for two small sheds, a chicken coop and a vegetable garden. The only way Shepherd could have hidden anything substantial on this small holding would be if he'd found a more versatile version of Dr. Loveless' shrinking powder. Yet he wouldn't have struck anyone as the 'genius mad scientist' type unless they were very drunk at the time. And Shepherd helped prove his own innocence further by offering to let the sheriff, the deputies, and both Secret Service agents search it all as much as they liked, provided they tried to be considerate of his mother. The cursory search of the small property turned up nothing, no other clues or auction barn treasures, rather as Arte already anticipated, and the sheriff became positively shamefaced and polite when meeting Tom's ailing mother. But one possible line of inquiry occurred to both Secret Service agents.

"You say you've only been working for the Auction Barn as a night security guard for two months?" Jim asked Shepherd. "Did you work there in any other capacity before that?"

Shepherd shook his head.

"N-no. I just . . . just started then. I used to work with my Pa . . . but he died in Sep . . . September and it was hard for me to find . . . work . . . on account of my . . . my . . . I don't talk good," he explained. "They . . . they've been real . . . nice to me over there!" The worried expression he'd had when the sheriff was accusing him came back. "Th-think I'll lose my . . . job because of th-this?"

"Can't say," Kurtz shrugged. "Who knows if the Auction Barn'll even still be open if we don't solve this thing? Customers'll be wanting their money back for everything those three were holding for 'em 'til Christmas. And the original owners of the stuff auctioned have already taken their cut and won't be giving it back."

That grim analysis did nothing to cheer the night watchman up. It also didn't answer the other question Jim had to ask.

"So if you were only working there since October, who was the night security guard before you?"

"Don't know," Shepherd answered. "They . . . didn't say . . . and I did . . . didn't ask."

"I can answer that," Sheriff Kurtz said. "Feller by the name of Bobby Timson. Took off for San Francisco, ain't that what you said, Andy?" he asked the bigger deputy.

"Yeah," Deputy Anders replied. "Had an uncle left him something, he said."

"Well, that would seem to eliminate _him_ as a suspect," Artemus frowned. "Unless . . . ." He shook his head. This wasn't a time for idle speculation.

"So where do we go from here?" Kurtz wondered. "If the burglars didn't have time or a train ride to up sticks, where could they be hiding out? Not here, I mean, but . . . ."

"It would have to be a space large enough to hold a lot of material and animals too," Jim said. "A big barn, probably, or a really big house with a barn attached. They wouldn't have had time to divvy it all up yet either."

"Mr. West," the exasperated sheriff exclaimed, "do you have any idea how many in tarnation places 'round here that could describe? Including yours? How are we supposed to search all those, 'specially if the two of you say some of the clues we find might not be ones we can trust at all?"

"We'll have to split up," Artemus sighed. "And arrange to meet back at certain locations at regular intervals to exchange information. No one or two of us should try to take on the whole gang without alerting the others, but discreet, broad searching is in order. Jim and I are used to working together, so we'll make up one team. I'd suggest you figure out who among your deputies and any volunteers you can find might be best pairing off."

"I'll help," Shepherd volunteered. "It's the . . . the least I c-can . . . do."

Neither of the deputies looked happy at the idea of teaming up with the stuttering, and possibly still implicated, man so Kurtz let them team with each other while he agreed to accept Shepherd's help. That would allow him to keep an eye on his first suspect even if young Tom did now seem innocent. There were two or three more volunteers the sheriff was certain he could corral into helping, holiday or no, and possibly others. They agreed on a meet-up place to be at in a couple of hours and Artemus, who usually followed Jim whenever the two agents took to the trail, didn't wait but led Jim back in the direction of town center with a haste that even his partner found curious.

"All right, you've got an idea," Jim said as soon as he and Arte were out of earshot of the others. "Mind telling me what it is?"

"I want to get a closer look at the Auction Barn, and another chat with the owners if we can get it." More than that he didn't want to say yet. "I'm wondering about something . . . ."

"About whether it might have been an inside job?" Jim nodded, hitting the nail right on the head once again, as Arte should've learned to expect by now. "I was wondering that myself. The thieves would have had to know the _exact_ layout of everything in the barn to take it and pack it up all so quickly and make their getaway without detection. Two months on the job isn't a lot of time to plan and organize something like that, assuming Shepherd was telling the truth about not working or having a connection with the place before that. And they paid him a pretty big bonus for a guy they've only had on the payroll for two months."

"There's that," Arte agreed. "And there's also the vengeance factor."

"Vengeance factor?"

"Aw, c'mon, Jim, even if it _is_ me saying it, why bother to take every single thing, every last crumb, trinket whatever and leave nothing behind – not even objects that aren't terribly valuable – if this was just a standard robbery? Why bother taking _all_ the livestock, when they would be the biggest hassle to deal with and to hide? Just because we paid top dollar for a donkey, doesn't mean your average Master Criminal gives a damn about something like a farm animal. I doubt Nusker's cage of rabbits was in the same class as the cases of jewelry or pocket watches. Some of the heavy tools and furniture in the Auction Barn were worth next to nothing, dollar-wise. So why take them? Why not grab only the valuables?"

Greed alone wasn't enough to explain it. There had to be some darker motive at work, as Arte saw it, and of all the criminal motives he and Jim had encountered in their Secret Service careers, none had been quite so powerful – or abundant – as the desire for revenge. Revenge on perceived wrongs suffered, some past mockery, rejection by society or foiled plans. The desire to humiliate and crush one's enemies. Vengeance was what had driven so very many of Jim and Arte's opponents – some as twisted in body as mind, like the mad puppeteer Zachariah Skull, the blind sea captain Ansel Coffin, one-handed Major Ball and legless Colonel Vautrain, Emmett Stark, to name only a few. And Miguelito Loveless' focus and obsession with Jim West was almost as much a help in foiling his global aspirations as the agents themselves were.

"The sheriff was right about one thing," Arte continued. "If we don't get all those stolen goods back – or at least most of them – the Auction Barn could be driven into bankruptcy and forced to close for good. So who might want to see that happen? Someone must know."

"You're right too," Jim muttered. "We have to do some more digging. Sorry I let myself get distracted by other things."

Other things beginning with an N, Artemus assumed. But he didn't have a chance to comment, because as soon as Jim knew their destination, with the slightest signal, he and Blackjack were off at full gallop and Arte resigned himself to barely keeping up. The horseman hadn't been born who could match pace with James West and his steed. The only factor that gave Arte a chance to remain in range now was Blackjack's age. Jim's demon stallion had more years on him than many a horse already retired. But Blackjack, like his rider, wasn't prepared to accept this reality, and the extra good care he got from Jim (plus all the helpful exercise from Jim's enemies) had kept 'jack in tip-top shape.

The M.G. Auction Barn, which had been filled with disconsolate customers, curiosity seekers and the auctioneers' families, if not merchandise, only an hour or so earlier now stood abandoned. Jim and Arte had to stop a passerby to learn what had happened in their absence. The injured proprietors, it seemed, had been escorted/carried to their respective homes surrounded by a coterie of relatives and friends to protect them from disappointed clientele who were already demanding their missing merchandise or full refunds. The Auction Barn never charged for storing gifts before the holiday to help the givers with concealment; it was a service the owners had been happy to provide gratis. But such holiday spirit was diminishing rapidly in this locale. Jim and Arte didn't need to use their lockpicking skills to get into the great barn this time either. Aside from the damage done to the outside lock, no one had bothered to secure it for its hapless owners.

"Well, it's not like there's anything left to steal," Arte muttered glumly. Still, the lack of consideration shown to the wounded proprietors left a bad taste in his mouth. Both the theft and the reactions weren't . . . .

"I know what you mean," Jim said, once again picking up his partner's unspoken thought. Both men had seen the darkest sides of human nature more times than they could count, in war as well as in the Secret Service. But something about acting this way so close to Christmas seemed extra wrong somehow. "So what was the other idea you had?" Jim asked, his words almost echoing in the empty space in spite of the hushed tone he used.

"I'm wondering if this couldn't be an inside job in more ways than one," Artemus answered, scanning the walls and the floor more closely. "The broken windows and those great big gouges on the door outside are as obvious as the gold watch left on Shepherd's front porch – maybe _too_ obvious. A large gang would have a hard time avoiding notice if they came from outside and made that much noise and ruckus forcing the door, no matter how drunk the occupants were. Why risk giving themselves away to their victims when the skill to pull of a job like this," he gestured around the cavernous barn, "implies they should have been more skilled at lockpicking too?"

"Good point," Jim nodded and began searching the barren building for anything that might be a concealed access point. "We know there are a lot of caves in this part of the state."

"And mines too – or at least there used to be," Arte added. "It might not be a hiding place in a barn we're looking for at all."

As if to confirm the theory, Jim gave a low whistle that the agents often used while in the field to signal one another. Arte didn't respond verbally, but made his way over in silence to a section of barn wall Jim was examining. It wasn't marked out by anything visible that differentiated it from the rest of the front area of the great barn, but as Arte put a hand on it, he noticed the same thing Jim was noticing – it felt as if it had a bit of give to it, and didn't feel quite as chilly as it should have if it truly was a section of outer wall up against the winter elements. There had to be a shielded space behind it, one that could only have been noticed if one used a surveyor to map out the big building's dimensions. This was what they were looking for all right. Exchanging silent glances, both men placed their hands on that piece and began pushing in the direction it seemed ready to give. Silently, a panel of wall almost as big as a regular barn door slid open on well-oiled tracks, revealing a dark hollow beyond. In what dim light was available through the opening, they could see a vast earthen ramp leading down into the earth at a gentle slope. The ramp showed plenty of evidence of recent use too – cart tracks, hoof prints, boot prints.

 _Guess we know now how the thieves got in and out_ , Arte thought. Perhaps one of the gang had deliberately created a noise in another part of the barn from outside to distract the semi-drunk proprietors. Once their attention was drawn away from the hidden passage, it would have been simplicity itself for the rest of the robber gang to sneak in behind them and overwhelm the three with ease.

But where did the ramp and tunnel lead? Could it take them straight to all that missing merchandise, and possibly the gang too? Did they dare delay finding out long enough to alert the others in on this search? Jim, as usual, didn't wait to make up his mind. With his customary West impulsiveness, he entered the tunnel, found by feel and career-honed night vision a lantern that someone had left hanging from a hook on the inner wall and emerged just long enough to light it with one of the match-sticks he always carried. Then, giving Arte one of those oh-so-familiar 'dare ya' side glances, dived back in. Arte had known for years that following Jim West into the unknown was a sure-fire way to land himself in some form of deadly danger or another. But he'd also known for every bit as long that he had as little will power to resist the siren song of trouble as his partner. With a silent sigh of resignation and the certainty of winding up on his Tiger Lily's naughty list, he caught up to the lantern light and both men ventured into the new subterranean frontier.

The tunnel went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Earth for a considerable length. Jim and Arte walked it together in silence for more than ten minutes with no end yet in sight. To judge by the sturdy wooden support beams holding it up at regular intervals, this had been a mine shaft once rather than a cave entrance. The precise, straight layout of the tunnel indicated that too. Arte was glad that the direction it lay in, though curving, didn't seem to be leading anywhere toward the underside of their own homesteads. It was eerie to reflect on just how much of Millwood Grove had a secret passage running underneath it without the townsfolk above knowing. Pre-War probably, Arte reflected. Such a massive piece of earthworks couldn't have been excavated without anyone noticing at the time. But the mine must have been the handiwork of one or two generations back and now forgotten. Westward settlers wasted no time trying to exploit the land's resources as soon as they gained access, often at the cost of the native inhabitants. Any mine that ran out of substance, even after holding long value, would be boarded up and abandoned for richer territory, and Illinois had more than its share of 'black diamond' wealth elsewhere.

 _How soon we cast aside our broken toys_ , he thought.

But that's what people did, and likely what had happened here. After all the tumults of the 1850s and the War and deaths that followed, new towns sprang up, old ones disappeared, grew and regrew like dandelions everywhere. So many of the antebellum generations were gone or relocated elsewhere, replaced by newcomers with less local knowledge - mostly. The Auction Barn might have started out as a smaller building or shed at the head of the forgotten mine entrance.

Someone had remembered this was here.

The path he and Jim were on began to slope upward once more – another exit point? Another way out of town that had been equally forgotten? Were they too late?

Distracted by their own thoughts as they followed the trail upslope, neither man noticed the thin tripwire in their path until it was too late. At once, accompanied by an audible bang, they were ensnared and knocked to the ground by a heavy, weighted rope net falling down from the tunnel's ceiling. Jim just barely managed to keep the lamp in his hands upright. Otherwise both of them might have faced a grisly death or serious burns at minimum. But they weren't going to remain safe for long. As they struggled to free themselves, they heard shouts and then saw lights coming toward them from upslope.

"Well, well!" an unfamiliar voice shouted, "Lookee what we have here!"

The next sounds they heard were rifles being cocked and multiple pairs of footsteps head their way. All Jim and Arte could do now was exchange rueful glances at their own carelessness. They both knew how the next part of the drill usually went.

"I don't think it's Santa coming," Jim muttered.


	4. Held Tight

"Ah, I believe it's actually stockings you're supposed to hang near the chimney," Artemus pointed out as one of their captors tugged the knot around his left wrist tight. "Ow!"

The unfriendly individual in question didn't have a sense of humor, apparently. Not that there was really anything to laugh at in their current predicament.

Artemus was glad he and Jim weren't being hanged by their necks, much as his wrists were going to hurt from circulation loss. His own feet were still supporting him firmly on the ground, if only just, and his arms hadn't been pulled out of their sockets – merely stretched uncomfortably overhead. But Jim was standing almost on tip toe as a result of their arms being bound to hooks inserted high in the wall over a fireplace. At one time those hooks would have been meant to hold cookpots, or maybe a drying rack of some kind. At the moment, though, they held two Secret Service agents and one sheriff's deputy. Frank Wilson, Sheriff Kurtz' junior deputy, had been no match for his bigger, older partner Deputy 'Andy' Anders. Now the young man, who'd proved a little too suspicious for his own good as it turned out, was going to share the captive agents' fate.

"What do you think they're going to do to us?" Wilson whispered. The poor junior deputy sounded terrified. Arte didn't blame him – he wasn't feeling any too confident himself at the moment. If only this had been a Secret Service case, he and Jim would have had more than one or two tricks up their sleeves – and in their boots, belt buckles, collars . . . . They had none of that to save them now. As it turned out, the borrowed guns he and Jim had been carrying were loaded with realistic-looking blanks, Deputy Anders had gloatingly informed them. Anders, the robber gang's second-in-command, had been very careful to take care of that little detail.

After realizing what role the older deputy had been playing, it wasn't hard to figure out who the gang's leader was.

"Mr. Timson, I presume," Jim stated as a new gloater arrived to inspect the prisoners.

Bobby Timson, the large, grizzled behemoth of a burglar chief grinned at them through his unkempt brown beard.

"And you must be the great, famous, mighty lawman, Mr. James West," the former Auction Barn security guard crowed. "Only you ain't so high and mighty now, eh?" Timson looked Artemus up and down, recognizing him too, but only snorting rather than bothering to say his name. Then the bearded man hocked up a great gobbet of spit onto the earthen floor of the old bunk house they were now in to show what he thought of his prisoners. "You're a couple'a rare ones all right. Mebbe I ought to have the boys start a fire in that fireplace and see how you like being well done instead."

"And what does that make you?" Jim threw back at their captor. "Half-baked?"

Timson scowled and landed a punch across Jim's jaw that made Arte wince in sympathy from the sound of it. But Jim wasn't stunned enough not to take advantage of Timson's proximity and use his own legs to launch a full kangaroo kick into the big man's midriff. The overconfident criminal went flying and crashed into the far wall of the shack before hitting the floor. Deputy Anders, who entered the room just in time to witness it, drew his revolver – _not_ loaded with blanks, Arte bet – and cocked and aimed it right at Jim. Arte made a tutting, tsking sound and shook his head in a desperate bid to keep the angry deputy from firing.

"You know, that's exactly the sort of behavior that will lead to Santa Claus putting coal in your stocking," Artemus scolded.

As meagre a diversion as it was, it distracted Anders as intended long enough for Timson to get to his feet again and motion for his second to put away the gun. Not because Timson had any intention of sparing them, but rather at Artemus' earning a hateful glare from the bandit as well.

"Coal!" Timson yelled it like a swear word. "You think I ain't got enough of that on my own, old man?" He shook his fist and looked as if he was about to advance toward the fireplace again and take out his wrath on _two_ Secret Service agents this time, but hesitated after giving Jim a glare that would have cracked ice. "Coal that's better'n what they got in Braidwood!"

The resentful hiss in Timson's voice as well as that glare made it obvious Arte had hit more of a nerve than he'd intended. But that also revealed Timson to be the thin-skinned sort of villain, so familiar to both agents, who could easily be made to spill out all of his plans to them while he thought they were helpless.

 _Which we might be_ , Arte realized. But helpless was different than hopeless. The longer they could get Timson or Anders talking, the greater the chance that they'd be able to come up with an escape plan of their own. Or maybe Sheriff Kurtz or one of his volunteers would figure out where the 'fancy pantsers' and his deputies had disappeared to and come to the rescue. Timson and his gang might be vicious thieves, but they weren't murderers yet, as far as he knew.

Jim, still unshot, decided to take the next round of poke-the-rattlesnake.

"That must be why you've stolen all those Christmas presents," the agent said. "They wouldn't have left enough room for your product."

Timson spat on the floor again.

"As if anyone in this stupid settlement deserves even that!" The big man's teeth were bared through his beard rather than grinning this time. "This whole damn town should'a belonged to me! It was _my_ folks came here first! My folks who found and mined the coal long before some dumb farmer found the deposit down in Braidwood! My family that sold it to the railroads an' helped 'em get started! And my family that should'a been rich and making the lot of you bow an' scrape to us!"

Here was the resentment all right, the lust for revenge. But . . . .

"Until everyone found out about bigger and cheaper deposits forty miles away," Arte supplied. "But what has that got to do with the Auction Barn or Tom Shepherd? What have they ever done to you?"

When Timson didn't answer right away, Jim took another poke.

"Why ask, Arte? Isn't it obvious?" Jim nodded in Deputy Anders' direction. "That story about him getting a legacy from a wealthy uncle on the West Coast was just a cover for what _really_ happened, wasn't it?" Like Arte's comment about coal, it was easy to see on Timson and Anders' faces that Jim's question had hit its mark. "The auctioneers fired him and gave Shepherd his job."

Timson nodded, eyes blazing fury even more.

"After all," Jim continued, "why would you still be here if you really had struck it rich? But that story did make for a convincing alibi, especially when backed up by the Sheriff's second-in-command. Much more convenient than having the entire town find out you were fired by such generous employers."

"Generous!" Timson roared. "I slave away for ten years for them in the barn _my_ family built! Living on wages when I should'a owned it! The first time they catch me fencing an item in Chicago, they fire me and give my place and their precious annual bonus to a punk half-wit! You call that generous?" He sounded as if he wanted to spit again. "Not reportin' it to Ol' Man Kurtz was _their_ idea of generous!"

 _Which it was_ , Arte thought, especially if it was merely the first time they'd caught Timson at theft – but maybe not the first time they'd suspected it. Even a first burglary incident would be enough to land a man in jail in most jurisdictions and bar him from respectable employment after. But such questionable generosity might doom the gang's three prisoners now. Sheriff Kurtz obviously had no suspicion of his senior deputy's activities and allies either. Speaking of whom . . . .

"What d'you think we should do with 'em?" Anders asked. The corrupt deputy didn't have to add the expected 'They know too much.' It was clear from his tone that he was asking more about murder method and disposal of bodies than whether the prisoners should be killed or not.

"Why," Timson let an ugly grin cross his snarling face, "I reckon these three deserve to have a little accident. We won't be needin' this damn shack I been hidin' in any longer. No need to waste bullets neither." The big man walked over to where a battered wooden cabinet hunched in one corner and took out an equally battered oil lamp and a small box. "Might have to waste a match or two though."

"What does that . . . ." Deputy Wilson gaped in horror and struggled against the ropes holding him as they watched Timson remove the lamp's chimney and splash oil around the small room. "Andy! Don't let him do this!"

If the junior deputy was hoping for any mercy or aid from his senior partner, he hoped in vain; Anders took his cue from Timson and began tossing bits of the sparse shack's more flammable bric-a-brac onto the floor where the kerosene puddles could soak it.

"Shame the way fire destroys so much in the wintertime," Timson observed as he and Deputy Anders finished the preparations and moved over to the doorway to make a quick getaway as soon as the stage was set. "They won't find anything left of you three except the skeletons!"

More interested in having a quick getaway than a spectator sport, Timson handed Deputy Anders the box of matches and took off. Artemus sucked in his breath and saw Anders try to light a match which sputtered out. The Secret Service agent wasn't as naively optimistic as the junior deputy, but if there was ever a juncture at which a man might change his mind before becoming a murderer . . . .

"Andy, please!" Wilson pleaded. "It's me, remember?"

Arte didn't expect any more luck than Wilson's appeal was likely to get, but for all their sakes he had to try.

"Hey," he called out to Anders, "you don't have to have deaths on your conscience – at least spare your partner!" He nodded toward Wilson. "It's Christmas, after all."

"It sure will be – for me!" Anders smirked meanly before striking a pair of matches alight with one swipe of his hand and tossing them into a far corner of the room where no breeze from the doorway would extinguish them. Then, as soon as Anders saw the matches begin to catch a kerosene-soaked rag, he vanished, as eager to be gone from the crime scene as his boss.

"No! No!" the younger deputy cried as flames began to crackle upward. All three men tugged at the thick ropes suspending them from the fireplace hooks, but without much success at loosing themselves. The knots held tight and there didn't appear to be a sharp edge or nail or other object nearby that could be used to fray the hemp.

"Any ideas, Jim?" Arte asked. "I don't want to be the briquet on the hearth!"

It looked like Jim did have a plan – he was swinging himself back and forth as far as the restraints would allow and bending his legs in an attempt to gain a foothold on the fireplace wall. The athletic agent's greenish blue eyes were staring upward, not to implore heaven, but to keep a focus on the hook he dangled from. The curved iron wasn't budging a fraction but the rope was, sliding up and down in response to Jim's movement. Arte knew at once what he was trying to accomplish. If his partner could only find that purchase and get the rope slid over the opening in the hook . . . .

But the flames were beginning to spread and with them, unbearable heat and smoke. Jim West had kept himself in superb form in spite of the passage of years, yet it wasn't enough. All three of them began to cough and choke, and Jim, closest to the fire, dropped back down spent, his exertions having used up too much oxygen. He gasped for air and tried to swing himself up again but couldn't.

"Jim? Jim!" Arte shouted as the fire and heat crept closer. The two of them had survived so many dangerous situations together. Was this really the end of the line? Was Artemus going to have to watch his best friend die first before dying himself? Were their families going to be left mourning on what should have been one of the most joyous days of the year?

Still struggling against the rope holding him, Artemus was almost ready to give in to despair when a tall, weathered and wild-eyed figure came running into the burning shack. Old Mr. Nusker appeared through the smoke like some sort of hellish vision – with a large, sharp hand axe clutched in his right fist as if ready to chop the prisoners to pieces. But instead of whacking at flesh, Nusker instead struck a mighty blow against the length of rope holding Deputy Wilson's arms tight over his head. Thick as the rope was, it proved no match for edged steel, splintering apart and releasing Wilson, who managed to keep to his feet somehow.

"Go!" Nusker commanded, pointing toward the door before turning straight at Arte, axe held high again. Nusker was as terrifying a rescuer as Arte had ever seen, but again the swinging blade hacked apart only rope, this time freeing Artemus with a force and suddenness that almost made him go down on his knees. Fortunately, Deputy Wilson hadn't yet fled as ordered and in spite of his fear had the courage to grab Arte around the shoulders and help him out of the burning building. Coughing and blurry-eyed from the smoke, Arte tried to turn back toward the shack.

 _Jim!_

Flames were licking at the doorway Arte and Wilson had just escaped from, dark clouds obscuring any sight of what might still be happening inside. Seconds later, though, Nusker emerged, stomping straight through the conflagration with Jim slung over his shoulder in the same flour-sack carry that Nusker had used with the wounded auctioneer earlier that day. Bowed under the Secret Service agent's weight, Nusker released his big hand axe to fall to the ground before he was barely ten feet from the conflagration and stumbled to his own knees, coughing and gagging before making it more than ten feet farther. Jim tumbled down, barely conscious and coughing just as hard, but alive. _Oh, thank heavens!_ Arte thought. Relief barely had enough time to wash over him before all of them heard a loud cracking sound and the flaming shack began to cave in on itself. Nusker and Jim were still much too close for safety, and tongues of fire leapt out toward them. Nusker, instead of shielding himself only did his best to hunch over and protect the man lying prone next to him. Then it was over and the two were still there and all right, though bits of smoldering cinder clung to their clothing. Wilson, with the energy and resiliency of the young, released his grip on Arte and dashed over to help extinguish the sparks before they could catch. Arte lurched over to help too, and as he and Wilson did their best to pull Jim and Nusker farther from the fire, he heard a familiar whining, whimpering sound.

"S'all right," Nusker coughed as his raggedy hound came limping toward him. The dog did its shuffling best to make a wide arc around Artemus and Deputy Wilson as it arrived to lick off Nusker's face. The old farmer's eyes were as teared up from smoke as Arte's had been a moment earlier, but instead of wiping them clean he reached out blindly to pat and reassure the faithful pet. "S'all right . . . ."

Jim groaned and the dog jumped back a bit as the Secret Service agent shook his head and struggled to pull himself up into a sitting position. He hadn't been fully unconscious, and now he was staring up at Nusker in astonishment as if the old man had somehow grown three extra heads and turned purple and glowing for good measure.

"You . . . you saved our lives," Jim whispered hoarsely.

That small sound and slight motion was enough to make the dog whimper again and try to hide behind its master.

"Shhh, shhhh," Nusker muttered to the hound, taking his hand away long enough to rub the water out of his eyes and fix Jim with a red-eyed glare. "He ain't gonna hurt you none," Nusker whispered to the dog. " _Is_ he?" For a man who'd just put himself to enough exertion to make folk half his age collapse, he managed to convey plenty of implied menace for anyone who might even _think_ about hurting his dog. It reminded Arte of the tone Jim had used when being protective of Blackjack.

Jim shook his head again, but not simply to clear it and again regarded the farmer with startled disbelief. Arte bent down to help his nonplussed partner up while Wilson did the same, with greater difficulty, for the hulking farmer. Watching them, Arte wondered if some of their misperceptions about Nusker might have been owing to his vague similarity in size and sunny disposition to Dr. Loveless' hulking henchman Voltaire. Foolish, really – and no one smaller or less strong could have pulled off such a dramatic rescue as Nusker just had.

"We owe you our thanks," Arte rasped. "And an apology. We had it wrong, Jim – _exactly_ wrong." He looked up at the perpetually scowling farmer, important pieces having fallen into place. "You aren't the one who abused that poor mutt, are you? You're the one who rescued him."

"As if I would ever hurt one of these creatures!" Nusker snapped. He might have added a few more choice words had a coughing fit not stayed him. But he didn't glower at Arte or Jim. He leaned down to pat and reassure the dog again, and tried to shush it and calm its shivering. Standing out in the chill afternoon winter, Arte and his companions might have been shivering themselves if not for the shack-sized bonfire producing a dozen stoves' worth of heat only a short distance away.

"Think they'll come back?" Deputy Wilson asked, nervously looking around at the clearing they were standing in as if the members of the robber gang might return at any moment to check on their victims' fate – which they might.

"We'd better be away," Nusker nodded. "My place is closest. We can head there – _if_ ," he growled, "you promise not to hurt any of my animals!"

All three of them, owing their lives to this unexpected hero, gave Nusker their solemn word. As if to reinforce his seriousness, the big farmer lurched over near the burning ruins to retrieve his trusty hand axe. The long wooden handle must have been uncomfortably warm to the touch, but he gripped it in his huge, calloused fist without complaint. A good man to have on their side, Arte thought – and definitely _not_ a good one to annoy!

Artemus didn't know Millwood Grove and its surroundings so well, for all that he'd lived in it for nearly a decade now, that he could tell precisely where they had been brought by their captors. It was evident that Nusker knew the terrain exactly, and so they followed his brisk march as best they could into the woods and toward the most forbidden farmstead of them all – his.


	5. Nothing To Dread

Refreshing walks through the forest can be even more brisk and eye-opening when there is the added stimulus of knowing a group of killers may be after you. With any luck, if Timson and his gang sent anyone to check on their 'witness elimination program,' the burned shack's ruins would convince them that the three intended victims were indeed dead. For right now though, being on the run and almost completely unarmed wasn't a good feeling. Nusker's axe wouldn't be any match for the robber's guns. Artemus hadn't felt quite this vulnerable for a long time. He was grateful beyond words to be alive and to have his best friend and Secret Service partner marching beside him instead of dead and burnt to a crisp. Still, this wasn't the perfect Christmas Eve day he'd anticipated.

None of them spoke or made any extra noise they didn't have to on the way to Nusker's property. But Arte knew that he and Jim must be thinking the same thing. This wasn't just about finding stolen Christmas presents, helping the auctioneers or proving Shepherd's innocence anymore. It was about stopping dangerous men who were fully prepared to commit murder – and a nasty form of it at that – to get what they wanted. If Timson and Anders were willing to kill a sheriff's deputy and federal law enforcement agents, then no one in this town was safe. The gang wouldn't be able to move out all their stolen merchandise at once, so they'd be here a while – or possibly shoot their way out of town over a mound of dead civilians if they had to. Equipping themselves and getting a warning out to as many people as possible, especially Sheriff Kurtz, had to be Jim and Arte's number one task. But how easy would that be given their current situation?

Artemus wasn't about to look a gift rescuer in the mouth, but as they exited the woods for a farmstead surrounded by barbed wire fencing and 'No Trespassing' signs, Jim dared to whisper an important question to Nusker.

"How'd you find us?"

The dour farmer snorted.

"You've Gideon to thank for that," Nusker answered, pointing to his dog. "He might have some parts missing, but his nose isn't! Good thing, too . . . ."

Studying Nusker's expression – not easy, since the man always looked sour – Arte had the impression that the farmer had wanted to say something more, but was waiting until they could be sure they were unobserved. The fences and signs around the property would be enough to discourage most people, and even the outer vegetation seemed to look . . . unfriendly. As they drew closer to the entrance though, Arte saw it was no supernatural force that caused the border of old apple and pear trees to look menacing. They'd been deliberately pruned to resemble something monstrous, and the marks where they'd been clipped were plain to see if one was looking closely enough. Evidently Mr. Nusker practiced the fine and rare art of terror topiary. Beyond the entrance gate, a path led toward a perfectly ordinary and well-maintained farmhouse.

A farmhouse surrounded by a veritable menagerie, that is.

Nusker didn't keep just the usual livestock on his land; he had quite an assortment of pets as well. The chickens pecking at the lawn were usual enough, but the white cockatoo striding atop a fence post not so much. As Deputy Wilson gaped, a llama strutted alongside the sheep and goats that wandered freely within the larger enclosure. Past the llama, a camel chewing its cud turned to look at them placidly. Nusker held out both arms to signal for his three guests to stay back. Then he whistled a particular tune and the llama and camel (or was it a dromedary? Arte never could keep those two straight) walked away from the house toward some field or cleared area in back of it, leaving the path clear for them, or mostly clear, to get to the house.

"Mister Nusker, Sir, do you have an elephant too? Or a tiger?" Wilson asked, with the merest hint of a hope in his voice.

"Neither," Nusker said, shaking his head. "Wouldn't be able to handle 'em. Gave those two a place after a circus goin' broke ditched 'em. Dang fools!" From his tone, he wasn't referring to the animals.

Arte could feel relieved about there being no tiger. He and Jim had experienced quite enough tigers and leopards for one lifetime, thank you very much. But he wouldn't have minded the presence of a few more dogs who might be able to bark and alert them in the event they'd been spotted or followed on the way here. Speaking of which . . . .

"Uh, there was something else you were going to tell us about Gideon?" Arte prompted. "About him finding us, perhaps?"

Nusker gave Arte an assessing stare and a single nod of the head. But he gestured for them to continue following him into his house, not speaking again until they were inside with the front door shut. Nusker's home was as startling on the inside as Nusker himself was proving to be. Given the sinister regard in which this farmer was held by most people, Arte and Jim might have been forgiven for expecting him to live in a cave or miniature fortress of evil, or maybe a warlock's hut with broom and cauldron. In fact, though, the living area they entered was as inviting, domestic and cozy as the ones found in their own homes. Nusker gestured for them to sit where they liked while he set his heavy axe down and went to fetch his guests some food and water – which wouldn't include meat. "I don't eat God's creatures," he told them. "Don't serve 'em up to others either." But Nusker watched carefully before stepping out of the room as a great, gray cat unfurled itself on the sofa from the balled position it had been sleeping in, silently padded over toward Jim and stretched up to sniff Jim's hand and be petted. Jim had always been fond of cats and obliged. Nusker nodded approval. "Ol' Junco's a good judge of people."

Jim sank down on the sofa and let the gray cat claim his lap. Junco trusted him enough to curl up and begin napping again, but the agent didn't give in to the same fatigue. There was the dangerous gang to apprehend, and only hours remaining before their wives and children returned to a town that wasn't yet safe. Dealing with Nusker and his eccentricities required a certain amount of forbearance too, but they still hadn't discovered what he had to tell them, or what he might know about Bobby Timson, the other members of the gang, or possibly the tunnels that ran underneath Millwood Grove.

Artemus felt tired himself, but he had too much nervous energy in his system to sit down. He looked around the living area to see what else he could learn about their enigmatic host. The room had a fireplace, of course – mercifully less menacing in appearance than the one they'd had their narrow escape from. The mantle was adorned with a couple of fragrant pine boughs, not unlike the ones in the Gordon and West homes. Nusker kept a pair of framed pictures over the fireplace too, presumably of loved ones – even he had some. But they weren't photographs or professionally painted portraits, which remained a luxury. These were pencil portraits, drawn by as skilled a hand as Artemus' own, with a bit of color added by tinted chalk. One picture was of a smiling, portly man of middle years, no one Arte recognized exactly, though something about it nagged and tugged at the cobwebs in his head. The other picture showed a beautiful and serene brown-skinned woman with a slightly lighter-skinned little girl on her lap. Mother and daughter, Artemus guessed from their similar features. Were they . . . ?

Jim cleared his throat and Artemus turned around to see Nusker re-entering the room. Nusker had noticed Arte staring at the picture, but instead of snapping in outrage at this disrespect for his privacy, the old man simply nodded and answered the unspoken question.

"My wife and child."

Then, as he saw all three of his guests looking around the room for other signs of another human presence, he set down the tray of refreshments on a table and sighed.

"They're not here. They died in '56 when the Missouri raiders sacked Lawrence," he said softly, handing out the tin cups of water to each of them. Arte felt so numb and startled by this pronouncement he could barely get his fingers to hold onto the cup. As a teenager, he'd heard all about 'Bleeding Kansas' in the ardent New York abolitionist household he'd grown up in. This poor family had lived it – and died it too. Such a loss would be enough to sour any man. "Moved up here after that. Didn't want to stay with 'em gone, so been here ever since," Nusker added.

Artemus swallowed the water reflexively, grateful that it gave him a reason not to talk for a few seconds. The little girl in the picture looked to be about the same age as his Amanda. Jim might have sensed how stricken he felt, because he chose that moment to set aside a reluctant Junco and get up to look at the pictures as well. With his razor-sharp eyesight and memory, Jim knew who the middle-aged man in the other picture was also.

"That's the man who owned the donkey we bought, isn't it? Chester Hartfeld?"

Arte looked again at the drawing. Their Christmas Burro had been owned by a wrinkled old man with a Santa Claus beard all his own, not a younger, clean-shaven fellow. But as he examined the features of the man in the pencil portrait, he saw it now too – the shape of the eyes and the cheekbones. This was Mr. Hartfeld all right, drawn years earlier, and that must have been what was pricking at Arte's memory the first time he saw the picture. Neither Secret Service agent had known Hartfeld at all well, but they'd met him at the town picnics and functions where he'd brought the little donkey for children to ride. He, too, had been someone special to this old farmer.

"That's why you wanted the donkey?" Jim asked. "Because of him?"

Again, Nusker nodded.

"Promised Chester I'd take care of his animals for him. He was my best friend and he knew I'd do it, too. He meant to leave 'em to me, but the will disappeared somehow, and a greedy nephew of his swept in with a judge's order to grab 'em. Put 'em all up for auction before I could stop it." Nusker shot Jim and Arte a sharp glare. "Then _you_ outbid me for Sassy! Wasn't nothing I could do but save the bunnies." There was plenty of bitterness in his voice, but then it drained away. "I seen that horse of yours though," he said to Jim. "Fine animal. Well cared for. That how you were planning to treat Sassy?"

"Yes," Jim said. Never let it be said James West didn't take full responsibility for his actions. He and Arte both confessed the purpose for which they'd wanted the donkey – and the fact that they'd felt they needed to protect Sassy from _him_. And yes, as it turned out, they'd been _exactly_ wrong about that. Two agents famous for not being gulled by subterfuge had never bothered to dig beyond surface appearances and society gossip in their own backyard because they'd assumed they didn't need to. The fact that so many other people did the same thing on an everyday basis, and that Nusker might be actively encouraging it most of the time, didn't make Arte feel any better.

But as it turned out, that not-so-little misunderstanding was significant in more ways than one.

"And now none of us has that donkey," Jim frowned.

"No," Nusker said. "But I think we can find 'im again."

"What?" Deputy Wilson exclaimed, startling them by his sudden intrusion into the conversation, while Jim and Arte were almost as puzzled. Almost.

"Gideon?" Jim guessed.

"Uh huh." Nusker made a clicking sound with his tongue and the dog in question came limp-running from wherever in the house he'd wandered to. Gideon was still a bit wary, but he seemed to have figured out that he didn't have to be afraid of these visitors. "Wasn't you lot I was looking for," Nusker admitted. "Gideon and Sassy are old friends, like me 'n' Chester were. Figured he could sniff the animals out and I could tell the Sheriff once we found 'em. Wouldn't let Sassy and Chester's bunnies come to harm if I could help it. Knew about the tunnels too. Used to use 'em way back. Wasn't surprised someone might be using 'em now. We kept hidden up top," he scratched behind the dog's tattered ear. "Then when I saw Bobby Timson and a couple guys running and I heard 'em say something about leavin' people hogtied and burning in the shed, and Anders runnin' after with 'em . . . ."

He didn't have to say any more. Young Wilson put it best.

"We sure are lucky you came when you did, Mr. Nusker!"

They sure were. The luckiest men in the whole world.

"Be risky to find 'em again, mind," Nusker added, "but it's got to be done. We can't have killers running loose in this town. I expect that you boys in your profession don't skip from facing that. I don't either, and I know the tunnels and I know the lay of the land as well as any man. Wish I didn't have to risk Gideon too, but we need him and you need me."

Deputy Wilson, pale as he still was, didn't try to back out. He might be green as grass and scared too, but he knew his duty. From the determined expression on his face, he wouldn't soon be forgetting how his own deputy partner had tried to burn him to death either. As for Jim and Artemus, facing danger practically qualified as old home week. Artemus was beginning to gain a very different appreciation for 'Mean' Mr. Nusker – and an idea of _why_ the old man might be so familiar with the old mine tunnels, the land, with hiding out when he had to, and keeping people from spying on his property. The fact that Nusker had been one of the Lawrence abolitionists long before the war broke out . . . . yes, it made sense . . . .

None of the 'Conductors' on the Underground Railroad, as Arte well knew from his own time as one, ever carried any identification or directions, anything in writing on their person, lest it fall into the hands of those who supported and profited from the slave trade. But they had their own ways of identifying one another, secret songs, gestures or signals. The 'railroad' wasn't composed of one group, or any one route, but many. Still . . . .

Now how did it go again? Oh, yes.

Artemus Gordon cleared his throat to get Nusker's attention, and then, with hands, wrists and arms, made a quick series of gestures that he hadn't used in a very, very long time and had expected never to need again. The movements might not have meant anything to Deputy Wilson, or even to Jim, who knew Artemus better than anyone except Lily Gordon. But as he completed them, Arte saw the light of recognition in Nusker's eyes, as well as surprise. Slower, possibly due to a similar rustiness, Nusker responded with his own answering series of gestures. Nothing was said out loud but, yes, they understood one another, Conductor to Conductor. A silent, shared bond from long ago.

"Well, then," Nusker said with a bit of soft, wistful raspiness in his unlovely voice, "we'd better finish slackin' and be on our way then."


	6. Up To The Housetop

"I know green is a Christmas color and all, Mr. Gordon, but do we-"

"Stand still, if you please," Artemus commanded, wielding the paintbrush to get the last bit of Deputy Wilson covered before stepping back to admire his handiwork. "There! Perfect!"

The young deputy looked down at his clothing, then at his reflection in the mirror.

"Awww, Mr. Gordon, you got me all covered! What if my Ma and Pa see me looking like this? Is this stuff going to come out of my clothing?"

"Eventually," Arte grinned. "Mr. Wilson, I do believe you are looking like a ghost of yourself! Or you will, in just a little while."

The junior deputy, Jim and Artemus would in fact all be looking like ghosts of themselves when the time came that it was needed. It was fortunate that one of the recent cases the Secret Service had sent them on (around Halloween of all times) had called for Artemus and Jim to put in as spooky and unearthly an appearance as possible to apprehend a superstitious suspect. Fortunate as well that Arte still had a king-size batch of the phosphorescent body paint left after that mission was over. It would come in handy now at a time of year he'd never expected to use it.

"Now let's go outside and soak up some of that beautiful afternoon sunlight!"

Artemus looked up at the sky as he and Deputy Wilson exited a small outbuilding near the Gordon house. Hard to believe that with everything that had happened to them today, it was still only two o'clock in the afternoon of this December 24th. Perhaps two hours of daylight remained, and the glowing green paint needed to absorb as much of that daylight as possible – an hour at least if they could get it. Their uncanny luck was continuing in that the weather remained sunny and clear. Artemus' scheme for them wouldn't have worked without sunlight. But while the task that lay ahead of them was dangerous for all involved, Arte intended to make sure as little blood as possible got spilled – especially theirs. With that in mind, Arte used a bit of cloth to grab the lengthy sheet of unframed mirror as he and the deputy carried it out to a waiting horse cart.

"Is this what they mean by smoke and mirrors?" Wilson grunted, lifting his end to tilt it into the cart atop two other mirrors. Special and specially green Secret Service agent James West was already outside loading other equipment into the horse cart. None of them were wasting time – there was so little of it left to the afternoon. Mr. Nusker had his own cart, and his own stable of three horses, and he'd used two of those horses and the cart with a drop cloth cover to smuggle his three 'deceased' allies back into the center of Millwood Grove just long enough for them to find Sheriff Kurtz and Tom Shepherd first – _not_ at the prearranged meeting spot where Anders might show up - and to warn them of what had happened. The sheriff had been almost beside himself to learn that his other deputy was part of the criminal conspiracy, and possibly the most dangerous part of it at that. But he wasn't going to doubt the word of all four of the men recounting this tale – especially when they all still reeked of smoke and the whiff of kerosene and three of them still had the reddened rope marks on their wrists to prove it too.

Kurtz hadn't been wasting his time either, and he'd been able to round up a small posse of men to aid in the task of catching the thieves. To Arte's relief, the volunteers looked not only competent and trustworthy, but well rested. The one advantage they had for sure in going into this fight is that the robber gang had spent the entire previous night assaulting the auctioneers and moving a veritable warehouse's worth of goods and livestock via the mine tunnels, which should have left them exhausted. Now that Timson, Anders and the rest thought that their most dangerous pursuers were not merely thrown off the trail but dead, there might be a chance to catch them napping – literally. If, that is, they could still be found.

Mr. Nusker and Gideon had what could be the most dangerous task of all, tracking the larcenous and lethal lions to their den and reporting back. He'd have more help in this than Arte and Jim had counted on. It seemed that there were two other relics of the region's past who he'd worked with during the dangerous '50s, conducting slaves to freedom Northward via the forests and tunnels – men who still considered Artemus a young puppy! But Nusker and his dog would be the ones tracking in the lead, picking up the trail of the Auction Barn's stolen livestock, while his elderly friends stuck to relay duty.

"It's something like smoke and mirrors," Jim told Wilson. "The mirrors may bring seven years bad luck – for them." He gave the young deputy a brief account of how a mirror had once saved his life – by causing hypnotized Secret Service agent Frank Harper to shoot his own reflection rather than Jim or himself. "We want them to be shooting at reflections of us rather than at us ourselves or anyone else."

"Just think of it as ghosts and mirrors," Arte chuckled. "And we're going to be the ghosts of Christmas present." _Or Christmas presents_ , he added silently. Neither Secret Service Agent intended to go blundering into another one of Timson's underground booby traps again, or let anyone else do it either. But they intended to set up one of their own, closer to a tunnel outlet where Kurtz's posse could be waiting and ready for them. Those of the thieves who weren't caught napping (and _kept_ napping with the help of some of Arte's more special chemical concoctions) needed to be lured into fish-in-barrel position, far enough from where livestock was being held and wouldn't be put in danger by the fight. That was Nusker's requirement, and Arte and Jim's as well. It wouldn't be easy, but with more luck they'd manage to pull it off, round up the outlaws and recover the stolen articles and animals this afternoon without a casualty.

The Secret Service agents' preparations and equipping had taken them no more than an hour, and the cart was on its way toward a prearranged meeting spot when the 'ghosts' heard a signal whistle. Artemus halted long enough for an elderly town librarian, one of Nusker's friends, to hop on board and give them the latest update.

"Anders met the sheriff and that boy Tom right on schedule," Mr. Walters the librarian and former Conductor told them. "Gave out a story as to how Deputy Wilson here gave him some guff and went off with you two, and he doesn't know where you all got to. Sheriff started swearing just like you told him to, and he and Tom went off saying they were going to look for you three instead of the bandits and told Anders he better go off and do the same."

Frank Wilson gasped and did some swearing of his own at the senior deputy's lie to their boss about him, but from Arte's perspective this was all going according to plan.

"You think he fell for it?" Jim asked.

"Anders?" Mr. Walters grinned. "Sure looked like it!"

"Excellent," Arte murmured. With any luck, Anders would head straight back to his criminal colleagues to inform Timson and the rest that they were as good as in the clear and that the sheriff had bought every word of Anders' phony story. Sheriff Kurtz was no professional actor, and that was something both Secret Service agents had worried about. If Kurtz had sounded too nervous or insincere and been forced to arrest his own deputy on the spot, Anders' failure to return to the hideout would have alerted the rest of the Timson gang and the lawmen would have a much worse fight on their hands. Instead, the senior deputy would be giving Kurtz' hidden posse one more trail they could follow to the gang's hideout. Artemus and Jim had one more advantage besides: the librarian had found a map of the old Timson coal mines in the town's archives, and it had allowed them to narrow the search considerably. The outlaws and the livestock had to be holed up in either a large above-ground hideout with sufficient barn or building space near one of the several exit shafts of the original system, or if still underground, near a section of mine that was not only large enough to hold them all but which had plenty of ventilation. Those criteria pointed to only three significant possibilities. Anders would hopefully point the posse to the correct location without even realizing it. And the sooner they knew that location, the sooner these 'ghosts' could set up for their haunting.

Mr. Walters didn't linger, but dashed back into the woods to resume his relay position, while the cart with its interesting occupants and cargo continued onward toward their own rendez-vous.

Sheriff Kurtz was an interesting mix of flustered and relieved when Jim, Arte and Deputy Wilson showed up, and not a little slack-jawed to see them transformed and green with something other than envy. Kurtz gave them his own description of the encounter with Deputy Anders, which Tom Shepherd backed up.

"I've done just like you said," Kurtz muttered. "Can't say as I've ever gone in much for this subtle-fuge stuff myself. You really think this plan of yours will work?"

"Have you thought of a better one?" Artemus queried, already knowing what the answer would be.

Sheriff Kurtz shook his head.

"W-we'll get them good . . . like . . . you've said." Tom Shepherd had a grim determination in his voice. It must have been as hard or harder for him to reign in his temper and appear to fall for Deputy Anders' fish tale as it had been for the sheriff, given the way Anders had treated him.

"Okay, but no bloodshed unless it's absolutely necessary," Jim responded.

Before anyone could add anything else, a whistle from the woods got their attention again, and the second of Mr. Nusker's elderly Conductor acquaintances put in an appearance. He made a quick hand gesture to them – the signal they'd all been waiting for. Nusker and Gideon had evidently figured out which of the three possible locations on the mine map the bandits and their hoard were holed up in.

"That's our cue," Arte said to Wilson. "Showtime."


	7. Ashes And Soot

It was amazing, Artemus thought once again, how a man like him could live in a town for a decade and never see so much of it. For example, until today, he had never once climbed down this particular mine ventilation chimney in Millwood Grove – or for that matter any other ventilation chimney in town either. While the accomplished actor had frequently been called on to play the part of Santa Claus for crowds of small fry, his current exercise was more the sort of thing he'd prefer to leave to Santa himself given a choice. All was nearly ready in spite of the short amount of time they'd been given to set everything up. Gideon's clever nose had once again proved as sharp as his owner's axe, and Timson's gang were indeed going to be caught napping, and luckily far enough from the stolen menagerie for the animals to escape harm.

Unfortunately the same might not be said for the glowing paint job Arte had given himself. His 'ghost' disguise wasn't the most subtle for sneaking up on miscreants anyway, but he hadn't reckoned on how the slightly sticky residue of the glow-in-the-dark makeup would pick up every single mote of dust, dirt and grime it came into contact with. Given that he was supposed to be the ghost of a man burned to death in a shack, the coating of ash partly obscuring the green paint now might lend him a greater air of authenticity, but cleaning himself up after this adventure was going to be a nightmare! He also wasn't sure under the present circumstances how long his 'glowing' personality would last. Long enough to do what he needed it to, he hoped.

So much of their plan depended on careful coordination, which was next to impossible over long distances. The tunnel system was so vast that not even Bobby Timson could have jury-rigged booby traps over the whole of it during the two months he'd been planning and recruiting allies for his Christmas revenge caper. Timson had presumably been using these same tunnels for earlier small scale lootings he'd carried out under the nose of his employers, but pulling off the theft of the entire Auction Barn's store of goods required freedom of movement through most of the route the gang had taken, and it wouldn't have done to get tripped up by their own traps. So Artemus was taking the assignment he of all of them could handle best, sneaking in behind the gang's underground encampment using some devices of his own to ambush into slumberland as many of them as he could, while using his acting and ventriloquist abilities to throw his voice and send any still awake on the run to where three full length mirrors, his two fellow ghosts, and a now sizable sheriff's posse would be waiting with open, and possibly cocked and loaded, arms as well as more sleep grenades. The one other catch, besides Artemus' need to carry out this awkward descent into a darkness in which he remained the most visible object, was the fact that he had no mirror handy to serve as his own decoy other than a small one he could carry down in his back-sack. Anything larger mirror would have been too heavy and cumbersome to position down here without attracting the gang's notice, and he might not have any opportunity to make use of the portable one on his person. So if the baddies started firing on _him_ , they'd likely be aiming at the real Gordon. Now _that_ was something to reflect upon!

Down, down the ventilation chimney Artemus Gordon climb-crept, a Secret Service Santa spider on a thin cable ready to take a stand against the underworld in more ways than one.

A haunting we will go,

A haunting we will go,

Hi ho, the scary-o . . . .

Staying hidden at the bottom in his day-glo green wasn't going to be as hard as Artemus had feared, and not just because of the soot covering him. This was one of the farther in, less developed sections of the once-thriving Timson family mining business, and its rough-hewn and irregular sides offered plenty of natural alcove space in which the agent could conceal himself as he snuck forward toward his waiting quarry. He felt about his pockets making sure he had with him everything he had intended to bring. Aside from his firearm, which he hoped not to need, he carried so many of his own 'improved formula' sedative smoke grenades he'd been afraid if he smacked up against a wall on the way down he'd be in danger of sedating himself. A member of the sheriff's posse was up top at where the ventilation chimney let out onto a long-overgrown fenced in area, watching the descent cable in case Arte had gotten into such trouble, but the moment the agent detached himself from that line he was – for now – on his own.

Moving from natural depression to natural depression, the semi-glowing 'ghost of Artemus Gordon' advanced forward, checking for traps but finding none. The thieves had not been expecting an attack from behind in a mine shaft they thought no one knew about but themselves, it seemed. They might just be afraid of ghosts in this spooky setting - or of getting lost down here – though. Arte had no trouble finding their little encampment – it glowed so much brighter than he did, with every single lantern lit. There was no guard posted at the back of the cavernous mine opening where Arte looked in, only toward the 'front' tunnels leading to the more even-hewn sections and readier access to the surface – the very direction in which _this_ ghost intended to get them running.

As anticipated, most of the robbers were sleeping off their exertions from the night before. Artemus counted seven men in bedrolls, three more sitting on the floor of the tunnel playing at cards, and the now-familiar ringleaders, Timson, Anders and a single, rifle-equipped sentry standing on the far side from where the Secret Service agent stood concealed. Perfect. According to the mine maps the librarian had found, the tunnel segment Arte was in held only a dead end. The stolen animals and presumably most of the loot were in a well-ventilated tunnel area with a chimney shaft for air similar to the one Arte had utilized, with the entrance to that area just off to the left. That section containing the livestock also led to a dead end, leaving no chance that the robbers would attempt to flee that way. Their only choice if they didn't want to climb up ventilation chimneys would be to run up the one route they were already guarding. So, time to get this post-Halloween haunt party started.

Arte's 'improved' sleep smoke bombs were just the thing to break the ice with, and came with an added bonus. He'd never succeeded in making his 'invisible' sleep gas formula work entirely right, so these ones would cast the same thick, green-tinted smoke that most of his previous formulas did. They would also, in the few seconds immediately following detonation, extinguish the light in any lanterns the green smoke encountered as its fumes very briefly displaced the oxygen the lantern's wick flame needed. Yes, mysterious green clouds, sudden darkness, a howling, vengeful voice bouncing around the walls, men collapsing unconscious and a glowing, green ghost of a murdered man appearing to anyone the smoke didn't affect . . . . This was almost going to be fun!

Arte pitched one sleep smoke grenade then another and another directly into the midst of the men in bedrolls and watched them go off like a charm. The seven sleepers didn't have much of a chance, waking up just long enough to shout in alarm and take good, deep breaths of the chemical cloud as their lights went out in every sense of the expression. With decades of stage experience and 'subtle-fuge' in his past, Artemus began throwing his voice with loud, ghostly moans and accusations that seemed to aim at the criminals from more than one direction.

"YOU . . . MURDERED . . . ME . . . !"

He heard a couple of screams and shouts that were definitely not his, followed by the sound of running feet. He needn't have worried about being seen and shot at after all; by the time he emerged from the natural alcove he'd been hiding in, nine outlaws littered the ground and the remaining four had taken off as if the very devils of hell were chasing them.

"So much for my dramatic entrance," he sighed. Audiences were so flighty these days!

With the expected signal of running and screaming sounds in the tunnel given, Jim and Deputy Wilson would be all ready to go into their own acts, but with the aid of mirrors so that the fleeing bandits came face to face first with terrifying phantom reflections rather than their real opponents. Forced to wait until the sleep smoke from his attack had settled and dissipated enough to allow him to enter the criminals' encampment area safely, Arte heard the sweet melody of more ghostly moans and screams in the distance ahead while keeping up a few poltergeistish laments to discourage the fugitives from doubling back toward him. Then, patiently picking his way across the field of slumberers, gathering up their guns, he continued to listen. There, from several hundred yards away, was the sweet sound of Deputy Wilson doing an impressive if high-pitched moan, and Jim's growling, best ghostly voice intoning . . . oh, good lord . . . .

Suddenly there came the expected sound of gunfire and glass breaking. Sleep smoke grenades gave out very little sound when they detonated, more of a simple clunking down onto whatever surface they struck than the release of the fumes being what made all the noise. But Arte, with a double armload of impounded weapons dashed as best he could toward the sounds of combat, praying that the bodies he now heard hitting the tunnel floor belonged to the thieves and not his friends.

He almost wound up being the recipient of a gas grenade attack himself as a result of his heroics, before the would-be grenade-pitchers stopped themselves from throwing at the glowing green Gordon in the nick of time and he managed to pull up short. Another green mist settled to reveal the full scenario. Bitter Bobby Timson, Deputy Anders and two other men lay in the tunnels, unconscious but still breathing and unbloodied in front of a massive mess of mirror shards and their smoking weapons on the ground.

"It sure worked, Mr. Gordon!" Deputy Wilson exclaimed. "The gas didn't even need to get all of 'em! I think the one guy just plain fainted!"

Well it was hard to argue with such glowing enthusiasm – and physiology. The junior deputy had more than earned a promotion today. As for Jim West's ghostly act however . . . .

"James," Arte raised an eyebrow at his partner. "Scroooooge? Seriously?"

Jim shrugged and gave him a mischievous grin.

"You do such a great job as Marley's ghost when you read that story out loud to people I couldn't think of anything else, except maybe boo!"

Jim had a point. Artemus knew he did a _terrific_ Marley's ghost bit.

The sounds that filled the mine tunnels next, though, were those of the victorious sheriff and the rest of the posse sweeping in, all of them as enthusiastic as Frank Wilson had been. Arte handed over the armload of guns he'd gathered up from the fallen felons to Sheriff Kurtz and the volunteers, while Kurtz's junior deputy joyfully handcuffed the unconscious senior deputy.

"Tsk, tsk!" Artemus said, looking over the shards of shattered mirror glass. " _Definitely_ going to get seven years bad luck out of that!"

"They'll get a darn sight more than seven years if I have my way!" the sheriff growled.

With many hands to make light the work, Timson and his crew awoke to find themselves restrained, relieved of their guns and ready to be frog-marched off to the Millwood Grove lockup that barely had enough room for the whole baker's dozen of bandits. A second round of happy hoots and hollers commenced as the volunteers found the stolen pile of goods and the livestock, most of the presents with the tags connoting their proper ownership still attached. Distributing the purchased gifts to their rightful owners and returning the residue to the Auction Barn might take even longer than it had taken the thieves to haul it away from the auctioneers in the first place, but it would happen now, and in time for Christmas too!

Sour-faced Mr. Nusker, who'd done more than just about any of them to bring this happy resolution about, assisted with leading and carting the animals through the tunnels all the way to the very Auction Barn stable they'd been stolen from. That too was an act carried out with haste, because while the animals had enough ventilation in the mine section to breathe at least, none of the robbers had bothered to bring food for any of the beasts or make an effort to clean up after them. Had they been left down there much longer, Gideon wouldn't have been the only one to detect the menagerie by scent. The hard-working, three-legged hound hung back whining from most of the humans who came and went from the Auction Barn to the tunnel and vice versa, but Gideon greeted Sassy with an enthusiastic barking Jim and Arte had never recalled hearing from the maimed mutt before, and the enthusiastic wagging of a tail stub.

"Friends reunited," Artemus sighed. "Jim . . . ."

The two agents exchanged glances and looked at Gideon and the not-so-mean-after-all Mr. Nusker. Much as they'd longed to find the living, furry Christmas present and teaching tool they'd bought for their children, they both knew there was only one right thing to do. Nusker's tale of how Chester Hartfeld had meant to leave him the animals only to have them impounded by a greedy relative of Hartfeld's likely was no lie. He and Jim nodded in silent agreement.

"Mr. Nusker . . . ." Artemus began, "we know we were wrong in the way we thought about you. If Chester wanted you to be Sassy's owner, it seems only fair to . . . ." He broke off as the old farmer gestured him to silence with an upturned hand.

"What Chester wanted more'n anything," Nusker rasped, "was to make sure Sassy'd be well taken care of. I reckon you'll do that, now I've seen how good you keep the horses. And he'd want children to be taught to take care of and respect their animals the same way. I'm content to have you keep 'im, 'specially me being old and all too. I'd just ask that Gideon 'n' me be allowed to visit him now and again."

"We'd be honored," Jim said, holding out his hand to shake Nusker's larger one. "I hope you'll consider teaching them about animals as well. I'd bet you know a lot more about it than most folks."

Nusker nodded and shook Jim's hand.

"Might do at that."

"And _I_ ," Artemus added, holding out his own hand, "hope you'll consider joining us for Christmas dinner tomorrow afternoon, if you aren't too put off that some of us eat turkey. I can make a casserole for you that will have no meat in it, and there'll be plenty of side dishes and desserts that don't either." Artemus happened to know that Adele West made her incomparable, feather-light pie crusts using butter rather than lard from his many unsuccessful attempts to duplicate them.

"You sure?" Nusker raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Been a long, long time since I had anyone's company but Chester's on the day."

"Then it's time to start a new tradition!" Arte assured him, shaking hands. "Two o'clock tomorrow. Please accept."

Nusker did. Then they all headed out of the Auction Barn with Jim leading Sassy to where their horses were, and Nusker carting the cage containing his rabbits to where his own horses and cart were waiting. With the sun going down, they'd have just barely enough time to get the little donkey back to its temporary concealment in the shared West-Gordon stable before Lily and Adele arrived back with the children. They had to wend their way through clusters of fellow citizens who'd heard the big news and were once again streaming into the Auction Barn to claim their purchases. Nusker shook his head at the spectacle.

"Isn't supposed to be all about gifts," he harrumphed. "Supposed to be about _a_ gift."

He definitely had a point, though that made Artemus wonder why Nusker too had left his purchase of the rabbits at the Auction Barn to be kept there and picked up on Christmas day. Obviously the bunnies weren't intended as a surprise gift for anyone so why . . . . He got his answer when Jim dared to ask Nusker the question he hadn't.

"Chester always knew to keep 'em separated," the farmer explained. "But his dang fool nephew put all four of 'em in the same cage! So I've been needin' the time to build more hutches to have enough of 'em and larger."

Looking more closely at the cage, Artemus saw what Nusker meant. He was no veterinarian, but even he could see the farmer was about to have a whole lot more rabbit than just what had been paid for. Perhaps he and Jim could sweet-talk their wives into adopting one of those next-generation rabbits for their little darlings if in a few weeks or months Nusker found himself too knee deep in them . . . .


	8. To All A Good Night

Sweet talk might not be enough to get the two Secret Service agents out of hot water this time as they walked out of their shared stable with Sassy and the horses safely bedded down on early Christmas Eve to find their families already coming up the path that they were about to wander down. Tem and Amanda, not worn out enough by their day in the Big City, bounded up to them shrieking in excitement. But the children's intention of telling their fathers about all their exciting Christmas activities that day was replaced immediately by their curiosity at a new spectacle.

"Daddy, you're glowing!" Amanda gasped, while Tem made a similar exclamation to Jim.

Yes – glowing and green and filthy too. Lily and Adele had raced up the hill right behind the children, and with fear, concern and consternation written all over their faces, reaching out at first to make sure of what they were seeing. Up close, the fact that the two men were covered in one of Artemus' chemical concoctions became obvious, as did Lily's this-had-better-be-good frown.

"It's a, uh, long story," Artemus stammered to the children. "We were . . . helping Santa with some, ah, very, very naughty people and we must have gotten some . . . North Pole magic splashed on us." He tried to give the kids and Lily his very best puppy-eyed, innocent expression, while Jim did the same with Adele. Little Amanda's skeptical regard almost matched her mother's. She was too bright to be kept fooled by the whole Santa Claus thing for very much longer. _They grow up so fast. Too fast . . . ._ he thought.

Tem was clearly buying this explanation though, and so no one was about to contradict it where the children could hear, though Lily pulled her husband aside to whisper in his ear as they walked back to their respective houses to get ready for the early evening church service.

"North Pole magic, huh?"

Oh, Artemus was going to have some explaining to do later if he didn't want to find coal in his stocking tomorrow morning! And he'd seen enough of the inside of a coal mine today to last him the rest of his life . . . .

The minister's Christmas Eve sermon, possibly composed in light of the town's misadventure that day, was on the importance of setting aside materialism and being thankful for the love, mercy and charity one may benefit from and show to one's neighbors. Several of the congregation were absent from church, as Sheriff Kurtz needed more than a few helping hands with keeping watch and managing his very full jail that night. But Deputy Wilson was present, given the time to attend with his parents in light of his valiant service that day. Two of the three wounded auctioneers were there too, still with bandages on their heads and a motley collection of bruises, but singing Christmas hymns with the best of them. And so effusive were the auctioneers, their families and several other churchgoers in their thanks to the two agents and the young deputy after the service that Artemus had hopes of escaping a scolding and a sock full of coal yet.

The only thing that earned the agents a few askance looks, and from more than just their wives, became apparent after they all left the well-lit church for the darkness outside. Though Deputy Frank Wilson lived right in the center of town and had apparently had time to scrub himself very clean, Jim and Arte's urgent donkey-stowing mission hadn't left them time to get in literal hot water before they were due at church with their families. They'd barely had time to do more than change into new outfits and give themselves a quick bit of washcloth and comb action, and all the bits of 'North Pole magic' they'd missed were once again glowing as if they'd come down with a touch of fluorescent green measles. Yes, this was going to be a night to remember all right . . . .

A hot bath, a Christmas Eve supper, an early bedtime for _children who wanted to remain on Santa's good side,_ and a private, honest and almost complete account of the day's events were enough to earn Artemus Lily's forgiveness. Having a conveniently positioned sprig of mistletoe helped too. The married pair of Santas put out their gifts for the children and each other that night – Christmas morning being an affair that demanded a two-house commute for both the Wests and the Gordons. Artemus and Lily split the cookies and milk Amanda had left out and after a thoroughly exhausting day and evening fell so deeply asleep that a sleigh and a herd of reindeer on the roof wouldn't have been enough to awaken them.

The next day dawned far too early, with Amanda being capable of making even more ruckus than reindeer from the moment she spotted the sun coming up. Lily was in such a charitable mood she even insisted on letting Artemus sleep in while she made breakfast and kept their rambunctious Visigoth daughter preoccupied in the kitchen for at least twenty-five minutes. Marriages are made of such loving sacrifice, Artemus thought, now confirmed more than ever that he was the luckiest man on earth.

A short time later, when brightly colored paper was strewn everywhere, stockings plundered, boxes opened and candy canes mercilessly harvested from the trees in both the West and Gordon houses, it was time for the adults to take Tem and Amanda out to the corral next to the barn for the Big Reveal. Artemus wasn't sure how an animal with such large ears endured enthusiastic child squeals better than he could, but Sassy seemed as eager to greet the children as they were to see him, nuzzling them both and chuffing a donkey welcome. The little creature had shown no signs of trauma from its kidnapping ordeal the previous night and now it was back on more familiar turf – being the center of attention and affection of young people. Tem and Amanda, in spite of having consumed enough sugar in the past twenty-four hours to make an adult vibrate, listened attentively and were eager to help as their fathers showed them how Sassy needed to be cared for. Old farmer Nusker arrived that afternoon in time to see the children taking turns curry-combing the burro. He was tired but as content as Artemus had ever seen him look after coping with several very season-appropriate births in his stable and not a lost or sickly rabbit kit in the lot. Artemus was slightly concerned about how the children might react to the sight of this experience-scarred giant of a man and the maimed dog at his side, but Tem and Amanda, in the way of children, saw the good in both quicker than their parents had as Nusker and Gideon were given a heroes' welcome. Shy Gideon even dared to let the children pet him gently without running or shying away, with his friend Sassy acting as a character witness.

Of all the Christmas dinners Artemus Gordon could look back on and remember, he thought the one he had that day was the best. The food was excellent and shockingly, so was the company. Mr. Nusker, whose first name turned out to be Eamon, was capable of telling some fascinating stories and even smiling occasionally when he wanted to. It was a shame that so few people besides his friend Chester had ever given him the chance. But by the time the elderly farmer and his dog left for home that evening, he was a firm favorite with the two children. Artemus could look forward to future visits from this man he'd regarded only as a monster less than forty-eight hours earlier. More than just the children had a lot to learn from their new friend.

As he looked out through a frosty bedroom window that Christmas night, Artemus Gordon's mind was a whirl with everything that had happened in such a short time. Nothing about this 'perfect' holiday had gone quite exactly as he'd originally envisioned it, certainly not on the day before Christmas anyway. He still had some aches and pains from being clobbered by a weighted net, strung up like a prize turkey to be burned to death by vicious criminals, and forced to descend into a dangerous, enemy-filled coal mine shaft, and yet he felt all the happier for having survived it. Happier to know that Jim had survived it too, and that everything had worked out in the end. Survived and come through it all with the help of a stranger who was now a friend. One more miracle that made Artemus feel as light inside as a fluffy little cloud of popcorn.

People spend so much time striving for perfection at this time of year, he considered, or at least their vision of what it should be. So much worry about things like tinsel and ornaments and purchases, buying the right gift, making sure the food and decoration and all that goes with them turns out just so. What an odd way to commemorate the birth of a child in a stable in an overcrowded city during a mass tax assessment.

"A penny for your thoughts," Lily said, coming to stand beside him and put her arm around him. He returned the hug and they stared out at the clear night sky and the stars for several seconds in silence. How could one put a night like tonight into words that would ever do it justice?

"I was thinking, Mrs. Gordon," he said at last, "that I must be the luckiest man on earth."

"We're a matched pair then," she whispered back, "because I think I'm the luckiest woman on earth."

And nothing more needed to be said after that, though as they turned from the window to embrace on this chilly but most wonderful of all winter days, the final line of a poem danced across his mind –

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!


End file.
